


Closer

by Jokerteeth (Moraearty)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dark Jim, M/M, Sadism, dom/sub theme, gagging, gobblepot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3345686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moraearty/pseuds/Jokerteeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was something inside of Jim, something wild and dangerous, locked away from the world in a cage of self-repression and morality. </p><p>Oswald let it out with two little words hissed in the sanctity of a dark alley.</p><p>"Fuck Me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Let Me Violate You.

It was the first time he saw Jim that Oswald knew. The way his posture stiffened, jaw clenched, the very way he breathed told him all he needed to know. It was in the alley, Jim holding him up, hot breath dancing across his face, and a bulge digging into his hip that was most assuredly not a police issue handgun, that Oswald had initiated their arrangement with two little words.

"Fuck me." 

Jim hadn’t needed telling twice. 

 

It was late when Jim had gotten a call on his way home from work. Oswald’s garbled screams into the phone followed by the empty sound of the dial tone had him flashing his badge at the cabbie as he scrambled into the taxi, yelling the address without thought of anything else but the need to get home. There was only panic in his mind as he ran up the steps, gun leading the way like an extension of himself. He couldn’t get his door open fast enough as Oswald’s cries became muffled. He kicked his bedroom door open prepared for the worst. 

The smell of sweat and sex permeated the air. An electric hum mingled with the muffled whines coming from his bed, the sight upon which left Jim breathless as he stood momentarily struck in the doorway.

Oswald was fucking himself face-down on their bed. 

It shouldn’t have made him angry.

"Stop." Jim commanded in a tone that could make lesser men piss themselves. The muscles in Oswald's body tensed in unison, the dildo still inside him the only thing still moving. 

"You called me screaming," Jim growled as he undid his tie.

"You threw me into a panic," he hissed as he wrapped it around his knuckles.

"and you _**DARE**_ to start without me?"

Oswald whimpered into the mattress, both a garbled plea and an indistinguishable apology at once. It did nothing to stop the harsh hands from flipping him on his side. His head wrenched up by his hair to meet the dark look on Jim’s face.

"Color, Oswald."

"James, pleas-" the back of Jim’s hand connected with his cheek, the sting making his eyes water and his cock throb.

“ _ **Color**_ , Oswald.”

The fingers in his hair tightened their grip, nails dug into his scalp, he closed his eyes as the blissful feeling of being the only one to own this side of Jim rippled through him in waves of euphoric pain.

"Green." Oswald whispered.

No sooner had he said it than Jim had yanked out the dildo. It left Oswald scrabbling and hissing into the sheets as Jim began rearranging him to his liking.

He grunted as Jim pulled his legs to his chest, effectively folding him in half, remaining mindful of his bad leg through it all. 

Oswald listened to the slick sounds of Jim preparing himself and struggled to wait patiently as his breathing became more erratic. It felt like ages before he felt the tips of fingers trace his entrance, blunt nails catching, threatening, but not harming. The first finger slid in with ease, the first knuckle making Oswald whimper, then another followed, and another, and another until he was almost too full.

"Sooo greedy," Jim chuckled as he pumped his fingers in and out of Oswald again and again. 

He finally pulled them out leaving Oswald empty and tingling. It wasn’t long before the head of Jim’s cock replaced them.

"P-please," Oswald choked as he tried to push back onto Jim, only to have Jim pull back, keeping the head firmly inside, but not going any further.

"James, fuck me!"

The sudden taste of cloth in Oswald’s mouth kept him quiet as Jim’s tie was tightened around his head.

"You’re not in control, you little whore," Jim’s hand was around his throat like a vice, "I am."

The sharp slap of skin on skin as Jim fucked into Oswald was lost in a chorus of muffled screams and stifled grunts.


	2. You Let Me Desecrate You

There’s something wrong with him, something wrong with both of them. 

He knows it in the way he breathes delight at the sight of contracting muscles in the aftershocks of agony. In the way his body reacts to the hoarse whispers of please, please, please coming quiet and fast as Oswald’s hands white-knuckle the cheap thrift-store headboard, his face hiding in the crook of his own arm and his cock dribbling onto Jim’s expensive sheets. 

His body quakes, lavished with the markings of Jim’s twisted reverence.

Jim raises his arm, the clinking of the belt buckle the only sound apart from muffled pleas and his own harsh breathing. He nearly moans as he watches Oswald’s muscles unconsciously tense further, coiling automatically in anticipation of the next blow. 

Jim could be a patient man, and the wait is worth it for that perfect little moment when the body relaxes against its will. Each limb going limp from exertion and the pain from remaining taut for so long. It starts in the neck usually, by the time the legs begin to slacken, Jim is ready. 

**CRACK**

The wave of pain that ripples through Oswald, body rocking forward by the sheer force of the belt, is nothing compared to the feeling of ecstasy that flows through Jim like a rapture obtained.

“T-ten.” Oswald sobs into his own arm, delirious and labored and perfect. It is a temptation to see if he can make it to twenty. 

Jim instead sighs as he lays his leather to rest and lets his fingers skim across skin, raised and swollen. The sounds of the other man’s whimpers wash through him, cleansing him as he revels in the heat of blood pulsing beneath his fingertips.

He had been exact in his ministrations. Every blow had landed with precision, nary a gap of unmarked skin between each red line. Four strokes across his cheeks and six along his spine. An inverted cross thrashed into flesh. The handiwork of a heathen. 

He is wholly unrepentant as he places his lips where lines meet at the swell of cheek.  
There lay his faith as dark as the welt under his lips. 

 

He viciously mouths along crimson streak down Oswald’s cleft, pressing rough kisses and hints of teeth into the tender flesh as he goes. His fingers part cheeks like Moses the red sea, tongue dipping in like a serpent’s seeking out the sweetest sacrilege hidden there. 

Hips jolt forward. A plea, a prayer, incoherent and oh-so-perfect, tears from a ravaged throat.  
Jim’s tongue plays the false prophet, plundering the devotion that falls so freely from tortured lips, tainting all he touches and regretting nothing as fire burns through his veins. 

There’s a pulse against his lips. A beat, a clench, a flutter of muscle around him and he moans, low and greedy, deep from within. The sound reverberates through heated flesh and settles between shaking thighs.  
He isn’t fast, isn’t desperate with need or hurried in his movements. Each slide of tongue is languid.  
In and out, in and out, and with each repetition he can feel the self-control the man before him so prides himself on begin to slip as Oswald rocks backwards against Jim’s mouth in tiny movements. 

Oswald’s pleas are exquisite but his sobs are a delicacy reserved only for Jim and he knows that Oswald will not last much longer.  
That’s alright.  
Neither will he. 

He gives one last lick, savors the whimper it elicits. There will only be screaming after this point, there always is. 

He slowly, gently, lays Oswald on his back and swallows the hiss of pain from kiss-bruised lips. Fingers work their way into raven-hair as Oswald bites at his mouth. The pain is grounding and the dirty metal tang of blood as teeth tear at his split lip stirs something primal, makes him rut aimlessly, settling for whatever expanse of heated skin he slides against first. But it doesn’t last long, Jim’s always had strong self-discipline and even here, when it would be so easy to let go and enjoy himself, he pulls away and settles back in the space between Oswald’s thighs. 

He drizzles him in warm oil. Watches it roll down a slope of bone-white skin and land in translucent droplets amongst the sheets, before rubbing it into his legs. He is extra careful around Oswald’s knees, gentle in ways he is so often not, but for the heavy-lidded look of serenity it brings, he can be. 

Fingers dip into navel, the oil collected there Jim’s ink.

There’s a calming effect in this ritual. Their sacrament of pain and pleasure. 

He writes his sins into milky skin, rubs them in deeply, loses them there until the next time and there are always so many but Oswald takes them in.  
He lets Jim paint him in his faults, his anger, his lies, his hidden blood-lust and there’s so much to write, so much to atone for, but Oswald keeps them locked away, safe and sound, while he’s out playing the saint in a city of sinners.

It is because of this, because of what Oswald is and what Jim has made him, that Jim hates Oswald just as much as he loves him. To bury the parts of himself he hates in between the supple white legs of this man is so easy, but the more he does it the more Oswald resembles a tombstone of transgressions. 

His fingers stutter and halt, he’s been writing the same word over and over across prominent ribs and it’s his greatest sin. His greatest weakness.

 _Oswald_

The stretch, slow and painful and excruciatingly dry, as he lowers himself inch by torturous inch is all he could ask for. Jim’s penance paid, his guilt exonerated another day.


End file.
